


What Is And What Should Never Be

by spacemonkey



Category: U2
Genre: Emotional Infidelity, F/M, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-21
Packaged: 2018-07-15 20:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7237102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts with five little words.</p><p>Set during early on, and later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this isn't Nexus...I'm not sorry. This had to be written, tonight, TONIGHT. I was inspired by a picture of Bono...well, I can't say, because that part happens in the second chapter, but it's a really nice picture. 
> 
> This is me writing in the present tense, which is crazy scary for me and not something I ever do, ever. But it felt right for this fic, and god, if I slipped up any tenses, please let me know. I'm terrible at such a thing, seriously. I wasn't quite sure how to tag this, because....I just don't know. But I hope you enjoy! (Nexus is coming, I swear)

They’re three floors up with the sound of the traffic down below, floating through the sealed window, and if Edge listens hard enough he is almost sure he can hear his beating heart pumping the blood through his veins. It’s keeping him alive, keeping him warm, and at such a late hour, it’s what is keeping him awake.

He looks to his left.

There is enough synthetic light streaming in through the curtains for Edge to draw an outline, and if he was to get out of bed and take two steps forward, he’s sure he might be able to see Bono’s face. 

His hair. His neck.

Four steps more, and Edge could sit on the mattress and pull the covers down, lean in close and whisper a thought. An idea. He has so many of them, and in all of them Bono is awake and saying  _ yes _ . Wanting, and his lips are parted and his eyes are blue, and Edge presses against him, skin to skin, mouth to skin, and he’s so warm; warmer and then hot, too hot and Edge knows it can only be dangerous.

He’s asleep, and Edge doesn’t get out of bed.

He tosses and turns, listens to the traffic, the stumbled footsteps passing their door, the traffic, the  _ traffic _ , and it’s not enough to push it all away. He listens to Bono’s steady breath and the thoughts in his head, the blood pumping through to his fingertips, in his throat, his chest and lower, deep down inside, and he looks to his left and cannot stand it a second longer.

The sheets fall away, his clothes fall away, and he should get up and leave the room, lock himself in the bathroom with his eyes squeezed tight and a name on his lips, safe, but he doesn’t. He can’t even bring himself to take two simple steps. He listens, listens, but Bono’s breathing stays steady. He’s asleep. He won’t wake. He shouldn’t.

He can’t.

He might. And he does, in the world behind Edge’s tightly shut eyelids, a smile on his face that can only be dangerous, and his breathing is steady, fast asleep as he leans in close and replaces Edge’s hand with his own. “Did you think I wouldn’t notice?” he asks as he strokes. The sun streams through the window and the bed is as soft as a cloud, and the world fades away. 

They’re alone, and there are so many possibilities that Edge doesn’t know where to start. On the floor, against the wall, the water pounding down and Bono velvet hot against him, around him, inside of him, and Bono still has that smile on his face as he says, “You’re all I ever think about.”

“Even-”

“ _ Yes _ ,” Bono says. He leans in closer, his lips warm and his mouth hot, and when Edge whispers his name there’s a smile, the skitter of his fingertips, and then it all fades away. 

Lost.

Edge doesn’t know why or how and then he feels it. 

Breath against his neck. All too real and so close, so warm, and he opens his eyes to Bono. So close, so real, and he’s caught. 

He knows where his hand was. Is. Still is, his grip so tight, and he can’t move, can’t blink, and through the darkness he can see the way Bono’s eyes glint. “You said my name,” Bono says, and Edge can’t deny it. He’s sure he did, he’s sure he’s done it before, and from the look on Bono’s face he’s sure that it’s been heard before. 

“I thought you were asleep,” Edge says, and Bono smiles.

“I know.” His gaze shifts down, down and Edge swallows hard. He feels calm though, calmer than he knows he should, and there’s a question on his lips that he can’t quite bring himself to ask, but he knows the answer already.

It’s written all over Bono’s face, in his gaze as their eyes meet; a simple  _ yes  _ that is life-changing, and they’re barely adults and yet there’s expectation. There’s life, there’s family, and there is more than just the two of them alone in a darkened room. He shouldn’t. They shouldn’t. But god, Edge doesn’t know what might happen if they don’t.

He can’t. He can’t ask it, and he doesn’t have to. There’s a pause, and then Bono leans in close and whispers, “I want to watch you.”

It’s more than a  _ yes _ , it’s enough. 

It’s too much, and Edge can’t stop himself. He’s too far already, with too many ideas in his mind and a thought, a single thought that keeps his gaze firmly fixed on Bono’s face. There’s want there, and Edge has wondered before, imagined it, felt it when he was turned away, and to be faced with it is shattering. 

He won’t last long, he can’t, and Bono’s lips are parted and his eyes blue, dark dark blue. 

His breath is there, ragged against his cheek, and his hand reaches out but he doesn’t touch. He doesn’t touch, and Edge could sit up and grab his hair, pull him down and take what he needs. He could drag him onto the bed and have him face down. He could lean in and just kiss him, and that would be enough. 

It would be more than enough. 

He wants it. He wants it all, and he’s too warm, he’s lost and he can hear his heart beating in his throat, and when he whispers Bono’s name, the smile he gets is enough to ruin him completely. 

He’s not sure how to recover, and there is a moment where Edge is sure he can’t. It passes, with big gulps of air and a tremble that takes too long to leave him, and when he looks back Bono is on his feet. 

Six steps back, and Edge wonders if he was a disappointment. 

But Bono doesn’t climb back in under the sheets. He turns on the bedside lamp, and it’s too bright at first, leaving little black dots that quickly fade, and Bono waits until Edge is focused before continuing. With his gaze unwavering, he slips out of his clothes with a practiced ease, and there is a future. There is their future and opportunity, and there is more at stake, but for a moment Edge wonders. 

He lets it go for another time, because Bono is flushed and hard, his skin pink and his chest heaving. There’s expectation hanging heavy in the air, and Edge couldn’t dare say no, not in a million years. Not with Bono looking like a dream realized.

He wipes his stomach with a tissue, and Bono waits, patient in a way that Edge never quite imagined. It could lead to so much, that sort of patience, in his mind, in reality, and Edge wishes he had done more than just let Bono watch. It’s a missed opportunity, and he’s tempted to let Bono just stand there until he’s ready for a real try. 

He doesn’t, he just gets out of bed and watches Bono settle down onto his mattress. Six steps forward, and he’s really doing this.

Six steps forward, and he knows it’s going to be beautiful.

It already is, and Bono hisses out a breath when Edge sits down, his face shifting, shifting again. He’s nervous and then lost, wanting and needing, and he slaps Edge’s hand away when it comes too close. There’s a smile though, twisted, dark, and his voice is low when he says, “Watch me.”

It’s not needed.

He watches Bono, watches him make love to himself, gentle with a practiced hand that stops and starts. Teasing the both of them as he skims his fingers across a nipple, down his stomach and then back up, featherlight against his throat as he whispers Edge’s name. 

His legs part, and Edge can see himself between them all too well, and he almost says it. He almost does, and he wants to. He wants to, and it’s killing him.

He doesn’t. He just watches Bono touch himself, slow at first, so slow until he just has to speed up. 

And then he  moans. 

It’s low, deep in his chest ,and then higher, higher and sweeter, and  _ god _ , Edge just can’t quite believe it.  He wants to touch, to taste, to stretch his lips and know the feel. He wants to be the cause of it all, and he suspects that, at this very moment, he is.

He must be, and he knows when Bono moans his name.

It was easy to imagine such a sound, difficult to prepare for, and it rushes through his body like a drug, a feeling that Edge craves as soon as it leaves him. He wants to hear it again, he wants so much, and he’s not ready for it to be over. Skin to skin, he needs it, and it’s too late. 

Bono comes alive with a stuttered gasp. He falls to pieces, and Edge falls with him. 

He’s lost. 

Reality sets in fast, and still Edge finds himself reaching out a hand. He draws back just in time, and Bono watches him with hooded eyes, the colour slowly fading from his skin. 

Silence. 

There’s nothing but the traffic down below, and Edge doesn't know what to do. It’s late, and he doesn’t know what to do. Something should be said. Anything. At the very least, Bono should know what Edge sees. He should know what he looks like to Edge, if nothing else. 

He should know so much.

They look at each other, and Bono rolls away before Edge can say what needs to be said. 

Edge says it anyway, a quiet voice in Bono’s ear as he keeps both hands firm against the mattress. It feels wrong to touch him, wrong to lift his voice above a whisper, and it’s a secret for both of them now.

The silence that follows drags him down, hurts him, but Edge doesn’t show it. He takes six steps back and climbs underneath the covers, and he stares up at the ceiling until the lamp is switched off. 

It’s easier in the dark.

“I wish we’d done that sooner,” Bono says just as Edge is about to give up on him, and Edge hears everything he’s not saying. 

“We could-”

“Edge. . .”

Edge nods. He turns towards the wall and tries to listen to the traffic down below, but all he can hear is Bono’s harsh breathing. It’s late, and he wonders when they’ll talk about it next. He wonders what the girls would say. 

“Edge,” Bono says again, and he sounds almost desperate.

“Go to sleep, Bono.” It feels cruel, but it’s needed.

“Alright.” His voice is small, and he shifts under the covers, then shifts again before falling still. Edge listens to him breathe, and he just knows Bono is doing the same to him.

He doesn’t sleep.

 

***

 

Their eyes meet and Ali smiles at him. 

If only she knew what he was thinking. Edge is sure that the smile would drop in an instant. He knew.  She would hate him. 

But he’s not able to help himself. He returns the smile, a little unsteady, and waits until her gaze leaves him before he looks back towards Bono.

He’s not able to help the thoughts, and he remembers that night like it was yesterday. 

Five simple words. It was all it took, and Edge wonders how Bono would react if his own words were to be whispered in his ear. 

Because he can’t help himself, he wants to watch. He wants to see again, and it’s frustrating how beautiful Bono is like this, with his hair brushing his shoulders and his body starting to fill. The centre of attention, confidence building on top of confidence in a way that Edge had seen coming, but with a vulnerability underneath that he never could have imagined.

A man. He’s a man now, with the world at his feet, and Edge has never been able to control his thoughts when Bono was involved. His actions, yes, but never his thoughts. He wonders what Bono might say if he was to reach out a hand and touch his hair. If he was to take him by the hand and drag him upstairs, take him to pieces and taste every single inch of his skin until Bono was begging him,  _ please Edge, please _ .

He’s beautiful, and Edge just can’t help himself.

He drinks his drink and waits until after Ali says her  goodnights , until after she’s disappeared upstairs, and it’s when Bono really notices she’s gone that he gets up and makes his way over. “Bono,” he says low in his ear, and Bono pulls back to look at him. 

His expression shifts immediately, and he knows. 

They don’t speak on the way up, and Bono hesitates as they pass his room. She’s inside with only a wall separating their rooms, and Aislinn is across the ocean with their two little girls, and  _ god _ , what is he doing?

He’s a bastard, they both are, and the door clicks quietly shut behind them. They look at each other, and there’s a thought in his mind of what they might do, but he knows he can’t. Not with only a wall between them. He’s not sure if he could, even if there was an ocean. 

His hand hangs in the air, ready, and when it drops Bono’s face is indescribable. Relief. Disappointment. So much more, and Edge just needs to see him. His memory is twisted, fading, and he needs to remember. He needs. . . 

Those five little words.

Edge says them.  “I want to watch you.” He waits for the  _ no _ , smiles at the  _ yes _ , and steps back when Bono reaches for him. “Come on.”

They head into the bedroom, and Edge feels a confidence in himself that is both surprising and not, and Bono follows him blindly. It’s empowering, thrilling, and through the wall he knows she’s there. 

The walls are thick, but he wonders. A small part of him hopes, and he’s selfish. He’s so fucking selfish, but he just can’t help himself. 

He waits for Bono to stretch out on the bed before he sits down, and there’s a silence as they look at each other. They’re both completely dressed, still in their shoes even, and already it’s different. He’s glad. He’s glad for it.

It had been so fast the first time. 

Edge drags it out. He has to.

“I was watching you downstairs,” he says quietly. “I was watching you and thinking what I would like to do to you.”

Bono’s throat bobs, and Edge knows he has him. As much as he can, he has him. “And what’s that?” Bono asks. His fingers curl against his stomach, tempted, and Edge keeps his own hands flat on the bedspread. 

He knows if he doesn’t, if he even reaches out impulsively, it’s all over. Ali had smiled at him, and he can’t bear to see her cry. He never could. And Aislinn. . .

So he keeps his palms flat as he leans in closer and tells Bono everything, the words coming slow and steady as he details his thoughts. His fantasies. It’s not the world at Bono’s feet, it’s Edge, with his fingertips digging in and his mouth searching, tasting Bono’s skin, tasting him and taking it all. 

It’s Bono bent over a desk with his own belt tied around his wrists, and Edge holding him there, holding him down until he begs,  _ please Edge, please _ , needing it, wanting it. And finally having it,  _ yes, yes, _ as Edge fucks him with a hand in his hair, at his throat, and Bono’s fingers scrabbling against the wood of the desk. 

Bono always takes it so well, so pretty. Edge tells him that, and the words hitch in his throat as Bono slides out of his jeans. His eyes are closed, taking it all in, and Edge continues. 

He can’t stop, there’s so much more to say, so much more to see, and as he watches Bono come alive he knows that, yes, he’s made the right choice. 

He's almost sure.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As it turns out, what was meant to be a one shot has now turned into three chapters. I should have seen that coming, heh. I hope you enjoy ;)

The doors shut, the engine rumbles to life, and _finally_.

In the back of a limousine with the divider separating them from inquisitive eyes, finally they’re alone. And it’s something they deserve. After such a night, after such a show, after their eyes had met six songs in, surely they deserve a little alone time.

“You played like an animal tonight,” Bono had said backstage after it all, when Edge was expected to just smile and laugh and brush off any sort of compliment that might have followed from the people that surrounded them, crowded them and separated them until they could finally slip away. Off into the cool, cool night and away from it all; too loud, too many people and then finally, silence.

It’s quiet, it should be soothing, and yet his pulse continues to race. Pure adrenaline and more, so much more. Spreading through his body like a drug, and he tries to stretch it out, tries to keep Bono waiting, but it’s not a game he’s going to win.

One look, and Bono had known what he was doing. Close, closer, and backing away with dark eyes fixed, a look Edge knows, a look he’s had roaming his skin, his body, selfishly taking as much as he can have. A look on _surrounding me_ , a wink and Bono’s hand, sliding down his own body as he sang on, ever the tart, and somehow Edge was expected to make it through the rest of the night. _Play the game_ , Bono had told him once, with his lips so close it had been torture, beautiful terrible torture.

It’s not a game he’s going to win.

“Take us the long way back,” Bono had told the driver before the divider went up. “St. Louis is beautiful at night.”

Edge is sure that the city is beautiful. It's just hard to find the effort to care. It’s there, right there, that feeling spreading through.

He looks to his left.

“You played like an animal tonight,” Bono repeats himself, and he has that look on his face again. It’s simple, it’s devastating, and Edge doesn’t know how he’s able to control himself again and again, when Bono is across from him with his cheek pressed against cool black leather and his neck mottled pink and white and shiny with sweat. He’s all sweat, all black leather and dangerous blue eyes, and when he moves, his shirt moves with him. Away from his neck, pulled away by fingers that know exactly what they are doing, and Bono smiles, a little wicked.

One day, Edge knows. One day he’s just not going to be able to help himself, and he’s not sure if that will be the end of the game, or another start. One day, and he doesn’t know when.

“Did I?” Edge asks, and Bono’s smile grows wider. His hand drops against the seat, fingers spread, and it’s a conversation they’ve had before. He knows the script, and it’s leading somewhere. “What sort of animal?”

“Mmm.” Bono’s fingers dance against the black leather seat as he pretends to think, and the way his neck is exposed does make Edge feel a little bit like an animal. Circling, circling his prey. He’s always just circling. “A panther,” Bono says finally, and it’s always a panther. Edge doesn’t quite know why. He can’t see himself the way Bono sees him.

He can’t look at someone and see anything but who they are. That, and a hundred different words to describe them. Sometimes, he doesn’t know where to start with Bono. There are so many words, A to Z, and sometimes it’s best just to start close to the beginning.

St. Louis passes by in a dark blur behind Bono’s head, and Edge can see himself moving in the window. Moving closer to Bono, never close enough, and Bono just slides his hand.

His fingers are warm, clammy, and he smiles when Edge says, “Baby.”

Edge has nothing else to add, and he knows nothing else is needed, not yet. One word in a sea of thousands, and it’s enough to tighten Bono’s grip, enough to focus his thoughts on this, just this, and almost forget.

It’s almost enough, and god, sometimes Edge wishes it just _was_.

A blur, all a fucking blur around them, stopping at lights and starting again, and they’re so terribly alone that Edge wonders if maybe he could, maybe he just might, and he can’t. Bono’s fingers slide against his, and it’s enough. It’s too much.

It’s a little bit like cheating, he knows, but he doesn’t care. A safe space and an easy ride, that’s all a limousine is. A few seconds and they’re caught easily, and it could only ever happen in the back of a limo.

His hand is turned, the thin skin of his wrist exposed, and Bono must feel his pulse racing, always racing. There’s a smile, the gentlest brush of lips, and it’s such delicate skin that Edge can almost imagine.

“What do you want?” Bono asks with his mouth still so close to Edge’s skin, his breath hot and his thumb tracing little circles against Edge’s palm. Teasing, around and around, he asks again, “What do you want, Edge?”

“Your mouth,” Edge says, and he can’t have it. He can’t.

He gets it anyway.

The lightest kiss at the tip of his index finger. A quick flick of Bono’s tongue, and Edge imagines teeth, nipping, biting at his lip, his neck. He wants it, he wants him, and Bono’s still there, drying his fingertip with a gentle blow. “Is that the finger you’d want?” Edge asks, and it's a struggle to find his voice.

Lips pursed, Bono looks at him. “I’d want all of them,” he says.

It paints a pretty picture, and it rolls through Edge to catch in his throat. “Always so greedy,” he says, and Bono agrees with just a nod. “You’d look so fucking beautiful like that.”

He would.

He does, with his legs spread in the back of Edge’s mind, grasping, clutching at Edge’s shoulder as he begs, _more, more_ and then _now, now,_ and he cries out silently, lost and his _eyes_. His mouth. . .

Edge can’t help it.

Thinking, imagining, he traces Bono’s lower lip with his fingertip, and it’s accepted. Encouraged with a gentle sigh, and Bono’s lips are damp as they come together, press against Edge’s fingertip in a chaste kiss, and his gaze is anything but. It’s heated, perfect and there’s no escape from it, there’s nowhere to go but forward, closer, and he can’t, he knows he can’t. Not even in the back of a limousine, but with such a look directed his way Edge has to do something. He has to, otherwise later, upstairs when they're really, utterly alone, he might just give in and take control.

Bono’s lips part so easily, and it’s how Edge has always imagined they would. Velvet-hot and sliding down towards his knuckle, his tongue curling and his lips loose until Edge manages to say, “Suck.”

And he does, his lips circling tight, wet heat surrounding him, in and out. His finger slides and Bono’s head is moving, moving like it might, it would, sucking Edge. The perfect heat, and Edge wants it, Bono’s tongue curling against his cock, those little moans coming from the back of his throat as he gives it his all. And his eyes, his eyes never leave Edge’s face. Always there, always with that look, sucking him, fucking him -

The engine shuts off, and it takes them a second. Longer than a second.

His finger slides, a wet _pop_ , and they pull away. Pink in the cheeks and breathing hard, they both still manage a smile when the door opens. Edge is sure Bono’s is more convincing.

_Play the game, Edge._

The breeze is cool against his finger, a constant reminder that lingers even after they’ve stepped inside. He’s tempted to bring his hand up, tempted to taste, and he does once the elevator doors slide shut. They’re not alone. They all watch the floor levels change, all except for Bono, who watches, rapt, as Edge sucks on the tip of his index finger. A hangnail is his excuse if anyone asks, and they don’t, of course they don’t. They’ve no idea, and the doors slide open.

They’ve no idea, but Bono knows exactly.

Their arms brush as they make their way down the hallway, and there’s expectation, _knowing_ , and Edge doesn’t dare make Bono wonder. Their rooms are across from each other, and if both their doors moved five inches to the right, they’d be able to walk out into the hallway and meet directly in the middle.

It’s almost the middle where they stop, eyes searching as they look at each other, and there’s a moment where Bono wonders, Edge is sure. His face changes, and Edge lets it. Encourages it, with a careful rise of his hand. He’s not entirely sure what Bono might say if Edge actually touched him, touched his face, drew him in with with one finger, maybe two tucked under his chin. He’s not entirely sure, but he has a fair idea, and it’s almost enough to make Edge do it. “Goodnight, Bono,” he says instead, and Bono’s gaze drops with a slight chuckle.

“Night, Edge.”

Edge watches him go. He waits until the door shuts behind Bono before he turns and slips into his own room. He knows Bono will be back out, after a long shower and a few thoughts of his own. There’s always somewhere to be after a show, always a party, a bar, a distraction and Edge doesn’t want to know about it. Most nights, yes, but tonight. . .

He pours himself a drink and stands out on the balcony, watching the city down below. It’s beautiful, he’s sure, but still it’s all a blur, and the breeze is cool, a terrible reminder that eventually has him back inside with a firm grip and a name on his lips.

Alone, he’s alone, and he remembers.

_What do you want, Edge?_

 

***

 

The phone rings, and it’s late, it’s so late that Edge can almost hear the birds.

“I’m drunk,” Bono bluntly announces when Edge answers, and he sounds like it too. The clock reads 4:56am, and the fact that Bono is offering up such information so readily tells Edge all he needs to know. “You need to - Edge, you need to come here.”

Edge sighs. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“Bono-”

“No, come _on_ ,” Bono says. He’s a mess, Edge doesn’t have to see him to know it, and regret flows fast. He should have gone out, should have been there to keep an eye on him, should have. . .

“Bono,” he tries again, and Bono laughs. It’s bitter, and not at all what Edge expected.

“I need you,” he says. “Need you here, Edge. Edge, please. Please, just-” Another laugh, worse than before, and Edge is already throwing back the covers.

“I’m coming, alright,” he says.

“Why?”

He’s not nearly had enough sleep. “Look, just stay there, I’ll be over in a minute.”

There’s a pause, and then Bono, his voice suddenly, strangely small, says, “Okay.”

Edge can hear noise in the background, faint, people talking, and he’s almost sure it’s the television but he has to ask, “You are in your room, right?”

“It’s our room,” Bono says after another pause, and that laugh comes again, thick through the receiver.

Edge hangs up the phone.

He’s knocking on Bono’s door barely two minutes later, and then knocking again, louder and harder, and he can hear the chain sliding, _sliding_ and it’s a struggle, it’s such a struggle, but eventually the door cracks open.

Edge pushes it the rest of the way, slowly and carefully because the last thing he needs is Bono on flat on his arse. He’s too heavy when he’s drunk, and Edge had found that out the hard way. He looks at Bono, and Bono shakes his head, lips pursed like he’s holding all the troubles of the world at bay.

And who knows, maybe he is.

But he’s a mess alright, pale and red eyed and missing a shoe, and he slides down the wall before Edge can stop him. “You came,” he says, and Edge joins him on the floor.

“I said I would,” he says gently.

Bono shakes his head again. “No.” His hand comes up and against his hair, and the cuff of his shirt is stained with vomit. It’s the only hint Edge can see, and he’s just glad the hair is gone. “ _No_ , Edge,” he exclaims suddenly, and Edge just doesn’t know.

“Hey. Hey,” he says, smiling when Bono looks at him. “What’s wrong?”

It’s a shot in the dark, and really, it could be nothing. He remembers Larry having a drunken breakdown one night, years before, because the toilet didn’t flush properly. He remembers himself, barely, two sheets to the wind and weeping up at the stars for a reason that was still unknown to this day, and Adam had laughed and laughed until he was red in the face. And he remembers Bono. And Bono. Different times, different nights, laughing and too loud, clinging to him and letting it all out, and they were all so fucking ridiculous.

But sometimes, there was a reason for it all.

He waits as Bono mulls it over, such a question clearly difficult to process, and he’s about to ask it again when Bono says, “Do you think,” like it’s a full sentence, his gaze expectant and hopeful as he looks at Edge.

“Do I think what?” Edge asks slowly.

Bono’s head falls back with a _thunk_ against the wall, and he looks so small, so lost that Edge wants to change the subject, make him forget that he ever had such a thought, whatever it was, and put him to bed after taking his single shoe off. But it’s no use, he knows, and he knows this sort of Bono, so he waits until Bono gathers his thought, singular, and says, “You. And me, do you, do you think we might?” 

It’s not a conversation they should be having, especially not with Bono in such a state. But maybe it’s for the best that Bono is the way that he is. He won’t remember, Edge is almost sure. He won’t.

Still, he can’t bring himself to say it. He can’t. “No,” he says instead. A lie, a terrible stupid lie that leaves Bono looking anguished.

“Why?”

He knows why. They both do, but it’s no use saying. There’s no right answer for Bono tonight, he’s sure. “We can’t,” Edge simply says, and it’s not good enough.

“Don’t fuckin’ say that, why?” Bono demands.

“Bono, don’t.”

It’s all Edge has, and he knows. Maybe he should say it, just to take that look from Bono’s face. Tell him _maybe, yes_. That there are too many hours in a year, too many left in their lives for them not to.

He won’t remember, and maybe that’s a good reason not to say it. He’s not sure he can have the same conversation twice. He’s just not sure. Of much, really.

“Edge,” Bono says, and he sounds desperate. He leans in close, and it’s only a simple hug he’s after. It’s something Edge can give to him, and he does, until Bono is calm, until he’s half asleep and growing heavier by the second.

It’s a slow and uncertain journey to Bono’s bedroom, and they stop in the bathroom, and then in the hallway because Bono can hear music and there’s nothing but the sound of talking, coming low from the television. Finally, he has Bono on the bed, taking off his single shoe and searching for the other. He comes up empty and it’s not entirely unexpected, and he heads to the kitchen to pour a glass of water.

Bono barely drinks a quarter before he gives up, and it’s enough for Edge. It’s enough, and when Bono is finally under the covers, finally settled after tossing and turning and pushing the covers away, when he is finally asleep with the pillow clutched tight is when Edge comes forward.

He sits down on the mattress and watches him for a long time, for too long, and he comes away still with no answers. He knows that he should leave, go back to his room; one less reminder for Bono in the morning.

But he can’t. He can’t stand to leave Bono in such a state and, in the end, he stretches out on the couch and watches the television down low.

He doesn’t sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thank everyone that has been reading this fic that was meant to be a short little ditty and turned into something...not quite so short! You're all beautiful, and now I can stop being distracted and return back to a little cottage in France...

It’s a blessed break in the middle of what has turned out to be a gruelling day, and even Edge can see it’s needed. 

Three weeks until tour, and already he can feel the strain. Maybe not yet in his body, but in his mind for sure. 

Three weeks, and Bono is on the outskirts of being napoleonic. It’s not uncommon for such a trait to appear at such a time, and it’ll soften. Edge knows it’ll soften, he’s sure, and it’s not even full blown, but there’s a sense, a  _ feeling  _ that they have to get it right. They have to, or who knows? 

A successful album is nothing if not followed by a successful tour.

He’s heard that enough in recent months, and he can’t fault anyone for saying it, because it was a thought that occurred weeks before anyone even opened their mouths. 

It’s always about the next one. The next one, always the next one, and god, a break is just what Edge needs. 

He lingers for a minute though, taking his time to reorganize things that don’t need reorganizing, and it’s probable that his attempts at looking busy are completely unsuccessful, and when he glances up Bono is looking at him. Knowing.

Edge doesn’t let it get to him. He just smiles, and it isn’t returned. 

There’s a thoughtful look on Bono’s face as he leans against the table, brow furrowed, fingers tap-tapping as he regards Edge. And perhaps there’s an idea formulating there, or perhaps it’s something else, and underneath Bono’s one part napoleonic nature he’s been at least two parts distracted. It could be anything, it could be nothing, but Edge decides that it’s for the best to just leave. 

He does. Down the hallway and to the left, he finds the vending machine. It’s not healthy but it’s something he craves from time to time, and today it’s something he needs. Too much sugar, too much salt and he doesn’t even want to think about what else he could be putting into his body, and he tucks himself away and eats the entire bag of crisps. Chicken flavoured, slightly stale with an added hint of regret, and he doesn’t care, he just opens the can of coke and makes a start.

They hadn’t quite set a time frame for the break, and Edge knows he should go find some more substantial food before he’s required back, but  _ Jesus _ . He can’t bring him to, and it’s so terribly sad that he just has to laugh at himself. 

It’s not just the tour. It’s so much more. 

“You’re looking thin,” Bono had said barely a week before, with his feet in Edge’s lap as they watched a documentary about the Civil War. Compelling television, until Bono’s attention had wandered elsewhere.

“I’m not,” Edge had replied, and Bono hadn’t looked convinced. “As it turns out, I’ve actually gained weight.” He’d had no idea if it was true or not, but it had been worth it for Bono’s expression. But still, there had been doubt there. He’d sat up, his feet sliding against Edge’s lap.  Staying. Too close, and Edge had lost interest in the television completely. With a wicked smile -  _ show me _ \- Bono had muted the sound before he’d started talking. 

And it had been wicked. So desperately wicked, twisting his words, shaping an idea and following Edge towards the bedroom, where he’d lingered in the doorway and watched. Just watched.

Afterwards, he’d said Edge’s name so beautifully, and there had been a thought there on Bono’s face, an idea that had slipped away with the shake of his head, and the next morning it was as if it had never existed.

It had occurred to Edge later that perhaps he could turn it around, tell Bono that he was looking thin himself, and it was a way to start something, a sly comment that might make Bono’s eyes light up in recognition. 

But it could go two ways, and Edge just doesn't know. Maybe it's a comment best left for another time, with a voice of concern more than anything, and Bono was already too fucking tired. It’s so much, too much, and Bono had laughed and said, “Don’t worry,” when Edge had started to. 

“I can’t help it,” Edge had replied, and it wasn’t the first time. Bono should have expected it, and maybe on some level he had, but still his smile had softened, his eyes searching and when he’d leaned in Edge had thought that finally they were  _ slipping _ , finally . . .

Just a hug. A smile and a hug and whispered words that never made it far enough, and Edge could never blame him.

Three weeks, and he could be doing so much. 

But no. He’s wasting his time down on a cold floor, drinking a can of coke that he’s not even enjoying.

It goes in the bin, half empty and a complete waste, and Edge checks his watch and wonders before wandering down and taking a right and then another right, and already he knows this building far too well. 

The bathroom is empty and Edge looks at himself in the mirror for a full thirty seconds, taking in the deep lines and the down-turned mouth and he knows it’ll be worth it, because it’s always worth it. And the tour is smaller this time, smaller than usual and intimate and isn’t that fantastic.

He’s sure if he thinks back to every tour, to every three weeks before, he’ll remember looking in a mirror and having a younger face look back at him. Thinking,  _ god _ , how terrible does he look. Younger and younger the more he looks back, and on the next tour, if there is a next tour, he’ll no doubt find himself three weeks out staring into a mirror and feeling so fucking old.

It’s a sick cycle, and he has to tear himself away. Self pity is not something he wears well, something he doesn’t quite understand when it comes, and thankfully it never lingers. There’s more to worry about than himself, after all.

He checks his watch, and knows that surely they can’t be far off. There’s still so much left to be done, and there always is. He takes the chance to use the toilet because he knows he’ll forget later, put it off until it starts to hurt, and he’s just washing his hands when the bathroom door pushes open.

Somehow, Edge knows. He always knows when Bono is involved, and he’s not surprised in the least. Until it hits him and he just has to glance back. The door clicks shut.

Smiling, Bono leans back against the door as he strums the strings of Edge’s Explorer, and it’s a sad, sad sound that fills the room. He’s looking smug, and immediately Edge thinks that it’s his own little way of being a smartass, letting Edge know he missed a deadline that they never even set. 

But there’s something else there, something in Bono’s demeanor that makes Edge bite his tongue. 

The silence stretches on as Edge badly dries his hands, and it’s only when he turns back towards the door does Bono say, “You forgot something.” 

It’s in his voice, in his gaze, and it’s certainly in the way he reaches back to lock the door without hesitation, so confident that Edge will say yes. Because hasn’t he always?

He has. Jesus, he has, but why today? Why, of all days, when there is still so much work to be done, and it’s obvious when Edge takes more than a second to think it through. An hour before, he should have seen it coming. Tight hands, tight shoulders and a furrowed brow that Bono just couldn’t seem to shake.

He should have seen it coming. 

Perhaps then he might have been able to prepare for it. And he’s not prepared, not for Bono crossing the room, with his hair in his eyes and that smile on his face, coming closer with his fingers wrapped around the neck of Edge’s Explorer. Different, like he’d never held a guitar before, and there is a joke in there somewhere but Edge can’t get past the dryness in his mouth. 

With a slide of his hand, up and down the neck of the guitar, Bono shows his intentions. And Edge can’t help but feel cheated, just a little. He had just come into the room for a piss. 

Still, he finds himself smiling back, and it’s twisted he’s sure, perhaps it’s not even a smile, but it’s something and it’s enough, and when he steps forward Bono holds up a hand. “No,” he says. “To the right.”

It takes a second to register, but then Edge is taking a step towards the stalls, and when Bono’s eyes narrow he takes another. And then one more, and it’s then that Bono nods. He follows it with another smile, and then he comes closer still, closer until Edge is able to reach out a hand and easily touch him.

He doesn’t. 

He can’t. He’s tempted, and Bono cocks his head to the side and asks, “What are you thinking, Edge?”

“You know what I’m thinking.”

Bono’s smile turns soft, and he nods. “Wouldn’t that be something,” he murmurs. His eyes flicker across Edge’s face, bloodshot and startling, always startling, and they’re still so blue that Edge doesn’t know how he manages sometimes. He doesn’t know, he doesn’t-

It’s just a gentle touch, a damp hand against a warm cheek, and he’s touched Bono like that before, clothes on in the back of a limousine, in comfort, in laughter, in front of other people or alone, but then always, always with the door unlocked. It’s a line crossed, just another line, and Bono’s eyes close. Beautiful.

“Edge,” he says, smiling when Edge’s thumb brushes his lips, and it’s been years but Edge still remembers that night in the back of a limousine. 

_ What do you want, Edge? _

He’d touched Bono’s lips. His mouth. His tongue.

Sliding his hand against a stubbly cheek and on towards dark hair, Edge asks, “Would you stop me?” 

It’s not the first time. It’s an answer he already knows, and he sees it again when Bono opens his eyes. There’s a guitar between them, and Edge is sure that this wasn’t part of the plan when Bono first picked it up.

He drops his hand before Bono can answer, knowing it’s not fair; it’s never fair, and Bono’s jaw sets as he turns his head. There’s a moment where Edge is sure it’s over before it can even begin, and it wouldn’t be the first time. He shouldn’t have asked. He never should.

Bono recovers quickly though, turning back to Edge with a small smile and that look in his eyes, that strange look that always gives Edge pause. “I have an idea,” he says, a little mysterious, a little dangerous, and it’s as if Edge never reached out his hand. 

Taking a step back, Bono lifts the guitar up and over, and Edge knows he’s expected to take it. 

He does, slipping the strap over like he’s done a thousand times, more, and god he’s known this guitar almost as long as he’s known Bono. So long, it’s been an eternity that’s slipped by lightning fast in places, and Bono runs his hand through his hair as he looks at Edge, considering, contemplating. 

There’s a thought there, something different, and when Bono drops to his knees it’s all too real. 

Edge knows, he knows exactly. Immediately he wants to once more reach his hand out, to grasp dark hair and drag him forward, with the guitar misplaced and Edge’s jeans shoved down, a wet mouth and some needy little moans, wanting it,  _ wanting  _ it. “Bono,” he says uselessly, and Bono just fucking sighs. 

It’s put on, dramatic, and there’s a hint of a smile there, and when he looks back up Edge doesn’t want him to ever look anywhere else. It’s a mental image he needs, that he will need later when he’s alone and desperate to remember, and Bono won’t look away. He would never lose such a connection, not when it’s always been about Edge’s response to him, Edge’s reaction to his words, his painted pictures that say so much. “What do you want, Edge?” he asks.

“You.” It slips out - slipping,  _ slipping  _ \- and Edge doesn’t regret it. 

Bono’s lips part, and his gaze shifts down Edge’s body. Not to where Edge wants it to, and if he had to choose Edge would want it to remain fixed on his face. 

There’s another sigh, and this one is for real. “You, baby,” Edge says. He can’t help himself, and he wants to touch, wants to reach out his hand and direct Bono’s gaze back to where it needs to be. Direct his fingers, his mouth. “The things I would do to you, Bono.”

Bono’s mouth quirks. “Such a beautiful guitar,” he says quietly. It’s not what he wants to say, Edge can tell as much without even seeing the look in his eyes. 

_ Play the game, Edge. _

Reaching out a hand, Bono adds, “I’ve always wanted this guitar,” and it starts. No turning back ,and if Edge concentrates really hard he’s sure he could hear his blood pumping through; low, lower, but there’s only one thing he can focus on and it’s Bono’s fingertips brushing against the body of his Explorer.

“You can have it.”

Bono makes a sound that only he can make; not quite a hum, not quite anything really but it’s pure, it’s perfect and it’s temping. 

His hand slides underneath the strings, his gaze flickers back up, and he says, “It’s all I can think about sometimes when I’m out there on my back and you’re standing over me, playing on.” He flicks a fingernail against the A string, the sound startling a reaction out of Edge, and Bono smiles. It’s the wrong guitar, and it doesn’t matter, Edge knows it doesn’t matter, and Bono’s hand is still moving.  “While I’m on the ground, defeated. Completely at your mercy, Edge, and you always look so focused, so determined to keep me down there for as long as you can.”

“I am.”

“And why wouldn’t you?” His hand is at the neck now, fingers wrapped around, shifting back and forth with that look on his face. “Every night, in front of all those people, Edge,” he says, and his hand moves, back and forth and down. Back towards the body. “Every night, I’ll be on my back letting you fuck me with your guitar.”

“Bono-”

“Is that what you think when you’re above me?” Bono asks, his voice thick, his fingers sliding,  _ sliding _ . Edge doesn’t answer. He’s not sure if he can. There’s too much, in his head, in front of him. But he knows the answer is written all over his face. When Bono bites his lip, Edge knows. “Does it make you hard?”

Bono only needs to move the guitar to find out the answer, to slide a hand underneath and touch him, undo his pants and touch him, and Edge could beg. He could do more than beg, he could make Bono, and it wouldn’t be force, it wouldn’t. There’s a look on Bono’s face, and Edge almost gives in. _ Please, please. _

“I’ve always seen your guitars as an extension of you, Edge,” Bono says. “Something I can touch whenever I want.” 

His hand drags down the strings, and Edge feels it slide up and down his spine; an almost metallic sound that matches the taste in his mouth, bouncing off the walls and shaking him, with an echo that he feels deep inside. Resonating, sliding, grinning down at his knees. One push back, and Bono would be sprawled out and ready. One pull forward, and he’d be right where Edge needs him. 

Right there, so close with his lips parted, so close, and before Edge can touch Bono is leaning in, with a wicked smile that’s too much. 

Edge can’t stop himself, he has to touch, and he does, his fingers through Bono’s hair. Gripping tight, pulling and Bono goes willingly, licking his lips like he might, like he would before he took Edge’s cock so well, so perfectly into his mouth. No. No, not straight away. Bono would tease him first, tease him like he was the one in charge of it all, and Edge would let him believe that, yes, that was how it was going to be.

“Kiss it,” Edge whispers, and he doesn’t miss the shudder that runs through Bono’s body, or the look in his eyes. Heated,  _ burning _ , and his gaze doesn’t stray. Edge knows he could. He could, so easily, and Bono would let him do it. Anything, everything, and Bono’s breath rushes out when Edge again says, “Kiss it.”

He does. Loving, chaste at first, teasing Edge with the faintest press of lips. His gaze stays, still burning, and it’s all a ruse. 

It’s not love now, it’s something worse, something wicked, and it changes completely with the slide of Bono’s tongue. Trailing against the front of his Explorer, marking it. Claiming it, with another kiss, opened mouth and wet, moaning when Edge’s grip tightens. Too much, Edge knows, and he can’t help himself. He needs to, he has to, and when he feels the hand against his thigh, he does.

The guitar comes up and over his head, and Edge drops to his knees before dropping it to the floor, careful, still careful, and it’s the only act of grace he can allow.

Bono is wide eyed and gasping, lips shiny with spit and parted, and Edge wants to kiss him. He has to, and  _Christ_. Gripping, pulling, with his fingers slipping back through dark hair, he kisses Bono. A gentle slide, surprising them both, and it’s what Edge imagined, better, perfect, and when it turns he’s not ready for it. For Bono’s teeth sharp against his skin, pulling at his lip and then kissing it all away, and it’s the moan, coming deep within Bono’s chest that ruins him. 

Finally,  _ finally _ .

No. He should stop. He knows he should, knows he can’t, and Bono is so warm, so close and pulling him closer still. Warm lips against Edge’s jaw, his neck, a harsh breath in his ear, and a hand sliding down his stomach. It’s real. It’s real, and Edge helps him with his pants, pushing them down and out of the way. 

Bono’s fingers are warm against his cock, and Edge can’t help but gasp,  and when Bono whispers, “it’s okay,” in his ear Edge knows it’s not. It’s not, it’s better, it’s everything and he won’t last long. Not today, not now, and he moans with each stroke of Bono’s hand,  _ slowfastfast _ , grabbing and letting himself be grabbed, pulled closer still. “It’s okay,” Bono says again, and Edge barely hears him.

He comes apart, lightning quick and spreading up and down his spine, and he gasps, cries out and Bono is there, still there. Holding him, touching him, whispering into his ear and it’s barely words, Edge doesn’t think. He doesn’t know, and he’s lost, his breath shuddering and his fingers gripping, and when he feels the hand against his back, soothing him through it, it makes him believe. Believe that maybe Bono is right. It’s going to be okay.

He lets himself believe. For a moment.

Bono’s hand stops moving, and he’s trembling, barely, minute tremors that take Edge too long to notice. And it kills him when he does, cuts right through him but before he can pull Bono closer, tell him it’s okay,  _ lie  _ to him, Bono is slipping away.

With his gaze fixed to the floor, he swipes a hand through his hair before nodding, short, sharp and then he stands. There’s nothing Edge can think to say, and the door shuts quietly behind him.

Edge stares after him, hopeful, but the door stays shut, and Edge knows that finally, finally he’s fucked up. 

He pulls his pants back up, knowing it would be just his luck for someone to walk in and see him. Find him on his knees alone on a bathroom floor in such a state, and it’s not something he needs. Not today. Not ever.

No one comes in though, and Edge cleans up as best as he can, splashes his face until the pink leaves his cheeks. With a paper towel he wipes the marks from his guitar, and it hits him, again and again. Bono’s mouth. His mouth and his hand, god, his fingers touching Edge, stroking Edge,  _ finally _ . It was real.

It is real.

Somehow, Edge manages to leave the bathroom. The door shuts quietly behind him, and he’s quick to make his way back to where he was expected probably ten minutes ago. Where the both of them were probably expected, and when he gets there, he finds Adam and Larry and no Bono.

It’s not surprising, and he manages a smile and ignores the curious gazes directed at the guitar in his hand. The guitar that he’d left behind, however many minutes ago.

He just gets himself ready, quickly,  _ focused _ , and when Bono walks in a few minutes later they only look at each other once, at first. He looks calm, composed, but Edge can see right through it, and he does, again and again when finally he can’t help himself.

They make it through the night. Edge isn’t sure how, but they do, and he doesn’t linger. He can’t, and he feels Bono’s gaze on him as he walks out the door. They can’t. Not yet, Edge knows. It’s too fresh.

If they talk now, he knows he’ll say the wrong thing. And it will feel right when he says it, but they’ll know. Afterwards, when the regret seeps on through.

It has always been wrong, a different sort of wrong where they could still almost convince themselves that what they were doing was fine. Normal. That it was okay, and they would return home with a clear conscience to hold her close. He’s able to look her in the eye because he’s never gone too far, he’s never touched.

Edge can’t even think about her. He knows he should, but it’s too much, too soon. The city passes by in a blur, and a ten minute trip lasts mere moments in his mind. 

He’s out on the balcony looking down on the city when the knock comes, and immediately Edge knows. He’s always known, and he shouldn’t. He shouldn’t. . .

He lets Bono in.


End file.
